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“Um. Yes. Sorry.” Elle sets her water down and quickly picks up a napkin, dabbing at her mouth and leaving a sultry pink imprint of her lips. “That was just a lot, you know? And don’t think I didn’t miss that you got me a burger and fries with fancy names.”
I can’t help smirking. “I also got you olives. Most of the food here is good; they just dress it up with a little five-star flare. Wagyu beef is tender and high protein.” I eye her sternly. “You’re too pale.”
“How can you tell the difference?”
“I can tell,” I insist. “Have you been eating enough? Taking your supplements?”
Elle rests her elbow on the table and props her chin in her hand, her pinkie finger toying at the edges of her slowly growing smile.
“August Marshall, are you worried about me?”
“... of course.” I blink at her. “I’ve brought a lot of hell into your life lately, not to mention that episode with the reporters. I don’t want this entire ordeal straining your health. You haven’t told me how severe your anemia is, so I can only hope I’m not subjecting you to undue stress.”
Elle’s smile flickers, and she sighs.
“You are so oblivious.” She shakes her head. “I was a premature baby, that’s all. Two months. I’m lucky I didn’t have any other issues. Heart conditions, underdeveloped organs, that kind of thing. My blood just doesn’t work quite right, but most of the time I manage with supplements. My blood pressure can drop really fast from malnutrition, rapid elevation changes, or stress, so that’s what causes the migraines. Though if my hemoglobin levels drop below double digits, sometimes I need a quick iron infusion. Especially if it stays that way for so long that my red blood cells don’t replenish right.”
I frown, watching her—but she’s not looking at me. She’s turned her gaze to the view, watching the starry city pensively.
“You’ve dealt with that your entire life?”
“Since birth.”
“It seems strange to me,” I say, then cut myself off. This isn’t my business.
But she glances at me, her brows rising curiously. “What does?”
Well, fuck.
I’ve stepped in it now, taking an interest, so there’s no point in downplaying.
“I only ask because most parents of preemie kids get clingy. Helicopter parents. Especially those with chronic conditions affecting their health. The fear of almost losing their baby always remains with them, until they nearly smother that child in adulthood. Yet you mentioned that your parents were largely absent.”
“Yeah. About that.” There’s a hurt curl to her lips I’ve never seen before and a wry cynicism in her voice. I briefly hate myself for causing it. “When I was first born, the doctors told my parents I was going to die. No ifs, ands, or buts. They prepared themselves to say their goodbyes ... and they didn’t really know what to do with me when I stuck around. They’d already emotionally let go, I guess. If they were ever there at all.” She shrugs stiffly. “It’s okay. I had Gran. She loves me enough for both of them. And she cared enough to protect me but knew me well enough not to smother me. I might not have turned out this way if my parents raised me.”
I think about that too long, honestly.
What a pallid, timid girl she might have been under her parents’ watchful eye, people who didn’t know how to care for her but felt a responsibility to protect her to the point of caging her in and crushing her light.
My brows inch down, and I shake my head slightly.
“You wouldn’t be you,” I say absently, not fully aware of the words leaving my mouth. “They would have made you fearful and small, not bold and bright. I like this Elle.”
“Do you?” she asks softly, a hint of vulnerability in her voice.
“I—”
Oh, where is that damned waiter?
I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
To admit such things to her, when I don’t want to give her ideas—or give myself any, when there’s something about this night, this moment, that feels too real.
I’m not falling into that trap ever again. But it would be a lie to take it back—a lie that would hurt her, and I have no desire to do that either.
I’ve put myself in quite a dilemma.
What can I do but face it and be honest?
